


me, once more

by porcelain



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demon!Stiles, Dubious Consent, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcelain/pseuds/porcelain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t worry,” you say, watching the deep gashes heal back into perfect, smooth skin. “You’ll learn to love me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	me, once more

**Author's Note:**

> posting on a whim. just a WIP, been in my drafts for half a year now -rated explicit because, yea, it's going to get to that point.

You’re just looking for a quick escape.  

Demon hunters these days are generally amateur in what they do, but these guys are relentless, and by the time you figure out a plan you find yourself in the middle of a bleak forest in goddamn nowhere Beacon Hills.

It’s just after they disperse through the woods that you start thinking about how much you’ll miss your body; you feel a bit of guilt in leaving her laying limp on the ground, but really, you have no time for a moral conscience.  You’re gone in a hush of thick black smoke, flying out and looking down overhead through a sleeping town, feeling irritation at having to flee when you see a small, pale figure driving a car in the distance.

Honestly, your only excuse is that the kid just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

*

Stiles likes to believe he knows a lot about plenty of things, but this is one of the circumstances where he’s completely fucking clueless and terrified and would like to know answers, thank you very much.

This thing whispers to him. He feels a kind of static, white and black, coursing through his veins. He’s still him, he thinks—still there, still feeling and breathing, but not entirely. _You’ll be okay,_ the thing coos to him, cloudy and low. _Kid, I promise I won’t hurt you._ _You have my word._

 _What the fuck are you,_ Stiles manages to echo out in the dark of his mind. 

“I’m you,” he hears himself saying into the cold emptiness of his Jeep, gripping the steering wheel tighter. There’s an inhuman stillness to his limbs, causing a chill to creep up his spine. He hears nothing but the dim whirring of the engine, and drives on.

*

Over the course of a day, you learn about the boy. The odd first name he dislikes, his favorite television shows, that lone freckle dotting his hipbone. Images of his dead mother seep through, stacks and stacks: how she smelled like peaches, the way her eyes crinkled, how spring always reminds him of her—and you feel the pang, an ache that you only feel when you’re encompassing a solid body like this.

Letting him empty all his memories and emotions into you, you soak him up, and feel his light surge through you. In return, you let a calm drift over him, soothing and warm. This part is always difficult, adapting to humanness once more. There’s a certain glow to being a part of something living, though, and this is why you keep a promise to yourself to not mess up, this time.

You learn about the werewolves, too, and you have a good laugh about that one—of _course_ you had to pick the boy that had already entangled himself with supernatural beings already. His mind races and you see a dark, glaring man – all scruff and red, red eyes.

He’s thinking of running to him, but you just quirk his lips. “Oh, we’re not going to have any of that,” you snarl, keeping close to his bed. You rake his fingers down his arms, blunt nails carving in deep until his mind explodes with pain. _Fuck—fuck what—what the fuck are you doing._

“You don’t speak a word of this to anyone,” you tell him quietly. “And I won’t kill you.”

 _Don’t you need my body,_ he croaks.

 _Silly, silly human boy,_ you chastise back. You make it clear to him that no such thing is true—that in fact, from now on, he needs you. His body is at your whim, and you can bend and twist and break anything you please, and there’s nothing he can do about it. If he plays nice, you promise, you’ll make sure he’ll get all the perks in this newly formed relationship.

“Don’t worry,” you say, watching the deep gashes heal back into perfect, smooth skin. “You’ll learn to love me.”

*

Perhaps the most surprising thing, Stiles thinks, is how at ease he feels, despite the fact that a demon (he almost laughs at that, almost—just, _demons_ , really, how much more does his life begin to become an awful supernatural teen show?) is possessing him—but see, that’s exactly it, the _possessing_ part: Stiles is free to be Stiles only because the demon is allowing him to be. 

He still wakes up in the morning and eats his burnt toast with his iced coffee, he still goes to school and daydreams through his history class, he still makes an ass out of himself during lunch. Maybe he’s a bit quieter during practice, and maybe Scott gives him a questioning look at one point, but it’s coincidence, he decides. Just coincidence.

When he talks, it’s still him speaking, mostly.

He hears the demon snickering in the back of his mind when he googles demons, ignores the comments like _Oh boy, did they get that shit wrong,_ and peruses down the lists of websites that get more and more obscure.

It’s when he starts to read about exorcisms, the lines _exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ barely being breathed out of his lips when he feels anger rising from the back of his mind. Stile’s fingers stop working when the lights in his room start flickering out of control. The computer shuts off. The fury builds and builds, until the barrier breaks, until there’s just white noise in his mind and he’s bending over, dry heaving blood onto the carpet.

“There’s so much I could do to break you,” it makes him say out loud. He wipes the trail of blood from his lips using the sleeves of his hoodie, and he gives a harsh laugh. “But I like you, kid. You’ve got a lot of potential. And a nice ass.”

Stiles feels the corner of his mind that’s actually his fade into a completely blank slate, to nothingness. There’s no retaliation, no rebellion or outbursts of rage, just an eerie quiet that floods through him.

“Stiles,” his father’s worried voice comes through the bedroom door all muffled. “You okay in there?”

He hears himself reply cheerfully, “I’m doing great, _daddy_.” 


End file.
